


Oh

by 8bite_me3



Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - Russian 21st c.
Genre: M/M, RPF, RPS - Freeform, Russia, Slight fluff, dam, gps, putvedev, vvp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 01:46:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8bite_me3/pseuds/8bite_me3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Putin is late for a meeting with the President of Russia. Takes place around December 2009.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh

**Author's Note:**

> This story can be read two ways: Vova and Dima are in a relationship OR Vova and Dima are not in a relationship. Pick whichever one you prefer. I did my best to make it ambiguous.

Putin stepped inside and shrugged off his coat. The old grandfather clock began to chime. One a.m.  
  
"Should I make some tea?" a soft voice asked.  
  
He turned around to see one of the house maids standing in the hallway. She looked tired. What was she still doing here? "No, that is not necessary."  
  
"Well would you like some cakes, or should I say more cakes, then?"  
  
"No. Why would I need sweets?"  
  
He could see confusion cross her face. She appeared to hesitate, unsure whether or not to answer.   
  
"Usually the staff has left for the day," he gestured to the clock. "I realize my work keeps me out late and so I don't require assistance. I'm not completely helpless." He smiled in an attempt to ease the mood and clear up confusion.  
  
She looked uneasy.  
  
"Am I missing something?"  
  
"We were told to prepare a meal for your meeting…" Her voice trailed off. She was clearly torn.   
  
"Meeting?"  
  
"President Medvedev is here, sir, in the drawing room. He's been here since seven. Mr. Peskov called to tell us to prepare."  
  
Putin blinked.   
  
Of course! His meeting with the PM of Moldova had run late. He had to reschedule Dmitry's Far East briefing to tonight. Right in front of his eyes he could see Peskov handing him the day's itinerary and nodding in response. After brushing off Peskov's concern over the schedule he could see himself throwing the paper in the trash without a glance.   
  
"I see. Well I thank you for staying so late."  
  
She stood there shocked. Perhaps she expected to continue on with more late night cooking. Dima probably inadvertedly kept her in the kitchen with every one of his stomach grumbles. He was getting fat again. He'd have to start dropping gym hints again.   
  
"You can go home. Good night."  
  
She turned with a nod and receded back to the kitchen area.   
  
He sighed.   
  
Upon entering the drawing room he found the Russian President in a state of unconsciousness. Dima was slumped across the couch dead asleep. A half-empty bottle of Port stood out on the table next to him. Beside the empty brandy glass were several dishes nearly cleaned off save for a few crumbs. He really did overeat. A small fire was still burning in the fireplace. It filled the room with a warm orange glow making the room feel cozy, ideal napping conditions.   
  
Putin sat down in the chair opposite Dima. He looked young and innocent sleeping there. Gone were the frown lines. Gone were the incessant bags under his eyes. Only his thick eyelashes remained, lightly brushing his bright pink cheeks reddened with drink. He was at peace.   
  
He sat there for a long time just watching Dima sleep. He did not have it in him to ruin such a state of rest. But it would be inconsiderate of him to leave him on the couch. He'd only wake up with a crook in his neck and a bad back.   
  
It took quite a few shakes from Putin to rouse Dima. He was more than a little out of it due to the alcohol. He practically had to lift the man up onto his feet. He was completely unable to stand on his own. Putin had to wrap his arms around his waist to keep him from toppling over. It would be even more inconsiderate of him to send him home in such a state, really. The driver would have to help him inside. And what then? Wake everyone up? No, Dima should stay here. There were more than enough guest rooms to accommodate a single night visitor.   
  
Very slowly Putin half carried, half dragged Dima up the stairs. When they reached the top he opened the first door on the left. The personal family rooms were at the end of the hallway. With having to support Dima, it was too far to walk. This smaller room would have to do.   
  
He adjusted Dima's weight to one arm as he opened the door. While trying to balance the man with one hand he used his other one to fumble around for the light switch. And he found it just in time too because Dima was falling into unconsciousness again and was quickly becoming a dead weight. Putin brought Dima over to the bed. He carefully laid him on top of the covers so as to not wake him from his slumber.   
  
Putin looked back at Dima's sleeping form as he flipped off the light switch. He had done his best to be gentle, but Dima was still sprawled all over the bed. Still fully clothed, he looked most uncomfortable. He couldn't in good conscious just leave him like that.   
  
He walked over and sat at the foot of the bed. With great care he pulled Dima's feet onto his lap. He unlaced his shoes and slipped them off his feet. He rolled the socks off and folded them on top of Dima's shoes. Without a second thought as to his actions, he leaned over and undid Dima's belt.

Next came the button.

And the zipper.   
  
It was then when he got a first glimpse of Dima's boxers,did he hesitate. What in God's name did he think he was doing? Undressing an unconscious _man_? On a bed? Not an entire lifetime of KGB training could stop the blush that spread across his face. This was inappropriate. No, it was more than inappropriate.

It was indecent.   
  
But Putin's mind reasoned that it was more wrong to just leave him there. This was a good friend. He didn't deserve to be dumped, carelessly tossed aside. And with that thought he removed Dima's pants. Putin did his best to be professional about the matter, but he couldn't help it when his knuckles brushed against the smooth skin of Dima's thighs. He couldn't help it when his fingers accidentally felt the soft hairs that covered Dima's shins.   
  
Enough of this nonsense! Putin mentally pushed all of these nonsensical thoughts from his mind. He stood up and folded Dima's pants over the chair that stood by the door. He turned back to face a half-naked Russian President.   
  
There was still a matter of his shirt and tie.

Putin struggled to undo Dima's double-Windsor knot. This damn knot had to be the most infuriating thing about Dima. Honestly! A simple shell knot would more than make do. He had to sit on the edge of the bed to get better leverage.  
  
Finally!

He had managed to undo the knot. He slid the tie out from the collar and tossed it next to the belt. God, Dima! What is going through your mind every morning when you tie that monstrosity?   
  
He looked down at Dima who was still asleep and slightly curled around Putin. He looked pretty cute there lying in only his shirt. Of course Putin immediately pushed that thought aside and began the process of unbuttoning. Unlike the tie he didn't struggle with this part since it just backwards to what he did every day. Luckily (or not) for Putin's sanity Dima was wearing an undershirt. And now only a thin, white tank separated Putin from Dima's skin.  Just this very thought caused his pulse to quicken.   
  
With all the buttons undone it was time to pull the shirt off. Putin gently wrapped one arm around Dima's middle and eased him slightly up off the bed. He slid the shirt off his shoulders, then off one arm, and the next… But Dima's right hand got caught in the shirt cuff. Putin laid him back down on the bed.   
  
This was a two hand job.   
  
Or at least that's what he told himself.  
  
Removing a caught shirt sleeve was a fine excuse to slide his hands down Dima's bare arm.  
  
Or at least that's what he told himself.    
  
To his surprise the hair on Dima's forearm was not coarse. It was fine and soft just like the hair on his head ~~and legs~~. It took only a few seconds to unbutton the tight cuff around Dima's wrist. And now he was finally able to completely remove the shirt.  
  
Putin stood up. He laid the shirt on top of Dima's pants and looked back at his work. There Dima lay in nothing but his underwear. It was a sight to be seen. Although Putin would never admit to such thoughts, he looked like beauty perfected in such a state. With the moonlight creeping over the bed from the nearby window Dima looked almost angelic.  
  
He heard the grandfather clock from downstairs chime. Two a.m. It was quite late. Just thinking about it made all the day's wear and tear catch up with him. He suddenly felt exhausted. His thoughts traveled to his own bed on the other side of the house. It seemed miles away and he was very tired. His eyes traveled back to Dima.   
  
Without thinking he began to undress, his gaze never leaving Dima's mesmerizing form. He approached the bedside in nothing but his own boxers and undershirt. Suddenly Putin felt very silly. What was he doing? His behavior was inappropriate and most unacceptable. So he turned on the spot and headed towards the door. But before he reached his destination his bare feet stepped off the rug and came in contact with the freezing wood floor.   
  
It was cold out, well more like subarctic. It was midwinter in Moscow after all. He looked back at Dima sleeping nearly naked on top of a mound of blankets. He couldn't leave him like that. So Putin decided to go the extra mile and tuck the Russian President under the blankets.

There.

Now he would be comfortable and warm. Now Putin's conscious would be clear. He did a good deed for a very good friend.   
  
One that looked awful cute, content, tempting…  
  
Dima whimpered in his sleep. A bad dream perhaps? He turned over, undoing the covers and exposing his backside in the process.   
  
Putin could not resist such an unconscious invitation. He carefully slid under the covers. His heart was beating so fast all he could hear was the muffled sound of blood rushing through his brains. His eyes focused on Dima's shoulders. He was so close to him he could even see his skin prickling from the cool night air. An alarm was going off in his head. He was crossing a line. But the bed was so warm, and he was so tired.

And Dima…   
  
He yearned to reach out and touch him. He was only a few inches away. He didn't know what to do. This kind of situation was unknown to him. He didn't like not knowing.   
  
Sensing the presence of another body or perhaps just sensing body heat, a source of warmth, Dima inched backwards. He came to lie flush against Putin; his back flat against Putin's chest.   
  
Putin's heart stopped. Such intimate contact. His body became frozen in place. He didn't know what to do. Should he move backwards? Should he push Dima away? Should he remain still? Should he…  
  
Putin was having difficulty forming coherent thoughts. His mind was in such a fog that he couldn't think. All his senses were overwhelmed, filled with Dima. He could hear Dima's light, even breathing. The alcohol on Dima's breath was so strong he could almost taste the brandy. He could smell the cologne Dima wore. He could see the faint hairs on the back of Dima's neck. He could feel his skin catch fire as Dima's bare legs brushed against his own.   
  
He needed _more_.   
  
More touch. More contact. More skin. More feeling. More Dima.   
  
So he wrapped his arms around Dima and held him tight.


End file.
